


The Beast You Know

by Ria_Trevelyan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Heavy Angst, Kink Meme, Misunderstandings, Prompt Fill, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spoilers, duh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:58:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ria_Trevelyan/pseuds/Ria_Trevelyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which F!Lavellan tries her best to cope with learning Solas' dirty secret, much dramatic irony is had, Dalish prejudice leads to lots of misunderstandings, and eventually they live happily-ever-after(ish).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an attempt to fill the kink meme prompt found here: 
> 
> http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12449.html?thread=48371617#t48371617
> 
> I may not stick to it 100%, sorry for that. It was a little too specific in places, my creativity got twitchy.
> 
> Hope you like it anyways OP.
> 
> :]

Despite exhaustion, despite the fact that the entirety of tomorrow would likely be spent in the War Room discussing strategy; and -- most importantly -- despite the so far hostile and almost overly formal nature of their relationship ; Morrigan still chooses _her_ to confide in….

..Tonight.

For some _absolutely_ unimaginable reason.

The Well of Sorrows and everything that took place in Mythal’s temple is still fresh in Frey’s mind. The guilt of giving one of the last known relics of her people to a _shem_ is still sharp and clear. Unsurprisingly, the last thing she wants to do right now is talk to that same human...but, _there she is_ ; standing right on the wisp-lit balcony, looking distinctly haggard and still wearing every inch of her armor.

Wide gold eyes focus on Frey immediately, and there is a hunted look there, a tense energy humming in the witch’s limbs. Any biting comment the Inquisitor might have spat dies on her tongue. Frey may not like the older woman, but it is clear from the look on her face that something is very _wrong_. Morrigan looks frightened, is twitching like a cornered hare that can see it’s own quickly approaching end.

“We must speak, Inquisitor, and what is to be said cannot leave this room.”

Frey nearly rolls her eyes in response, but reminds herself not to be childish, even if Morrigan is dead set on acting like a drama queen.

“Perhaps we should speak inside then.”

Keeping her attention on the witch, lest her strange behavior be some precursor to an attack, the Inquisitor opens her wardrobe and begins to dress for bed. 

“There is a wolf among us,” Morrigan speaks with finality as the balcony door clicks delicately shut behind her.

Frey’s vision flashes briefly red with panic, though she quickly reins her volatile emotions back in. Surely Morrigan does not mean that how it sounds. Growing up Dalish must have oversensitized her to references to the Dread Wolf. A bunch of silly, superstitious nonsense if Solas is to be believed, and Frey silently chastises herself for jumping at shadows. Surely Morrigan speaks only metaphorically. A traitor, a threat. Not any actual --

“The well has shown me the truth about the one you call ‘Solas.”  
 _Solas?_

For the briefest of moments Frey is nothing but confused, but then...a few things click into place. Things about him that made no sense, comments made in passing that he quickly retracted, everything he knows about their people, secrets long lost to time…

The way he spoke to Abelas.

Frey may not speak fluent Elvish but Solas had certainly said nothing about a him _‘finding a new name’_. 

All that knowledge he’d shared at the Temple, his ~~suspicious~~ uncharacteristic silence at the Fen’Harel statue shone in a new light. Everything he had ever taught her about Elvhenan -- _‘ancient memories’_ indeed.  
He had actually been _there._  
But...

No. The very idea is absurd. Solas is a _friend_ , an ally, a -- well, he would not betray her; and she would not have fallen in love with a ~~traitor~~ wolf.

“He has _lied_ to you Inquisitor. It is _all_ a grand deception, this soft spoken, scholarly persona he has cultivated -- whatever reasons he has given for his allegiance, his involvement. _Lies._ ”

“That--” her voice breaks, the ground seems to become insubstantial beneath her feet. 

_‘Dirth ma, harellan ..’_ an echo of the Nightmare’s words seems to ring in her ears and Frey fights the urge to clamp her hands tightly over them like a frightened child. 

She stumbles to the ridiculous orelian chaise Josephine insisted be placed in her quarters, legs threatening to give out any second. “That can’t...he can’t be..”

“The Well has shown me his image Inquisitor. I have seen the face beneath his many masks and he is a _beast._ ”

_‘But, ma vhenan... I love him.’_ Her heart rails against the meaning of Morrigan’s words even as her mind proclaims them to be true. It just makes too much sense, and suddenly Frey feels like an unforgivable fool for never having even _questioned_ before. He says so little about himself, and yet she had been so enamoured with him that she had been satisfied with the scraps he threw her. 

Creators, was she ever anything but a game to him? A foolish little creature to use and manipulate however he saw fit? He must have been so _pleased_ with himself when her awkward attempts at flirting starting --- Ignorant little Dalish girl, fumbling to seduce the one she was supposed to scorn.

Morrigan is making to leave now, but turns back with her hand on the iron rail.

“There is one more thing.”

“What?” Frey barely manages to choke out, a single word made of little more than sobs and determination. Her vision is blurry and her cheeks will soon be stained with tears. 

“The mark upon your hand, the breach that started all of this…..it is his magic. Though the method or the purpose of it I cannot guess.”

_‘I can,’_ Frey thinks, bit of the puzzle continuing to fall into place, _‘Orbs dedicated to members of the pantheon, indeed. The artifact Corypheus had used had been his.’_

The door shuts behind Morrigan with a small, final ‘click’ that becomes the last snowflake which starts the avalanche. 

Frey is lost to her sobs now -- long, broken things that they are. Chest heaving, crude, bleating animal noises echo off the walls. She wails, throws things, punches her pillows, conjures huge blocks of stone to fling at her walls, at the distant mountains….

Eventually she is drained, not one more drop of mana to expend, throat raw from cursing fate. Then, despite her best efforts to the contrary, Frey falls asleep.

And right on cue, the nightmares creep in:

_-The forest is dark, but familiar. An amalgamation of all the woods Frey had travelled growing up with her clan. Now, however, she is alone... and nature is not her friend._

_Unarmed and naked she flees through the blackness ahead, from what exactly she does not know. The roots rise up to trip her, branches reach out to scrape at her exposed flesh. Eyes watch her flight from the shadows, too many of them, glowing red and full of menace. Growls and roars echo despite the lack of walls, she can’t tell where they come from, can’t choose which direction she should turn to escape. Teeth close around her ankle and she falls, suddenly cornered by the beast, frigid night air pressing in on her like the walls of a cell._

_Her own blood dripping from it’s mouth, the wolf presses it’s face close to hers and Frey finds it haunting in it’s familiarity. She has seen it countless times over the years. Long nose, high, expressive brow line. It has the features that are carved into every statue of the Dread Wolf Frey has ever seen, extra eyes notwithstanding. Features that, she realizes quite suddenly, bear a startling resemblance to a certain elvhen apostate.-_

Frey wakes suddenly, not with a scream but with a sob. There are fresh tear tracks on her cheeks, though she cannot imagine how there is still anything left within her to cry. 

The sun is high in the sky, signaling that it is at least noon. Past midday and no one has come to wake her? They were probably trying to be polite, assumed she was exhausted, thought they were giving her a break. Not quite the mercy they may have imagined, but Frey appreciates it regardless.

...Or perhaps they had simply been scared off by the ruckus she’d created last night. _Creators_ , everyone must have heard.

Frey heaves a heavy sigh, there will be many questions to answer today, and despite her long sleep, she is not feeling rested in the slightest. If only she could hide up here a little longer, safe and well away from the world of responsibilities that awaits her.

_Safe from the gaping maw of Fen’Harel, ready to swallow her whole._

It is with every last drop of determination she possesses that she throws off her covers. She has dallied too long already. She must be gone from this place, she must be far from him before the sun sets.

Nausea mounts in Frey’s stomach as she washes herself and dons her armor, the urge to crawl back into bed and hide from reality almost overwhelming. Not that giving up is even a viable choice right now.

There is no time for a break, no time to wallow in self-pity and fear. The Inquisition must push forward, especially now. Solas had been the one thing that made Frey cherish the time between missions, her sanctuary from the madness that threatened to consume Thedas. Where she could just be a soft spoken elven girl, flirting with an equally soft spoken (though much more assertive and self-confidant) elven man. 

Yesterday she had thought herself hopelessly in love. Wondering dreamily if today would be the day he would finally give in to her bumbling attempts at flirtation, the day he would finally take her into his arms and kiss her.

Instead -- _today_ \-- she would struggle not to cower before him. 

Morrigan was right. No one could know. Even if they believed her they would not understand. They did not grow up hearing the tales of his treachery. The Dalish gods were nothing but an entertaining and exotic mythology to the shemlen, if not strictly heresy. 

Solas was Fen’Harel, and she could tell no one. Morrigan was poor company to have in this secret, the witch would certainly not stoop to console her, of that much Frey was sure.

There was no way to confront it, nothing to be dealt with. It was taking all the resources she could scavenge to fight one darkspawn that played at godhood. Fighting an actual god? He would cut her down without a second thought and undo all her progress.  
So she would push on.  
She would gather the rest of her army, gain every alliance to be had, and then she would face Corypheus. 

Alone -- or at least, without Solas at her side.

So, _alone._

Frey almost scoffed at herself. Solas wasn’t even real, he had never even existed. The man she had come to love was nothing but a fictional construction of Fen’Harel’s _pride._

That must be the case, because if the...the _thing_ she had fallen in love with was really an aspect of the Dread Wolf himself. Well, what did that say about _her?_

It felt like he had died, she mourned him so strongly. 

Perhaps they could end this quickly. Perhaps she could spend enough time away from Skyhold that they could win this without her ever having to confront him again. Without ever having to be alone together --- because Frey honestly did not know if she could handle that right now.

The next time they stood face to face she would be torn between trembling in fear or attempting to fry him with lightning. So, best to put it off as long as possible, steal as much time as she could to brace herself. 

Luckily, Frey was spared the indecision. Once she was fully armored and down the stairs her advisors were quick to shove a large mug of coffee into her hands and usher her into the War Room. 

There was surprisingly little to discuss. It would take quite a stretch of time for all their troops to return from the Wilds. Therefore any next move that might be made was put on an extended hold.

Frey tried not to let her frustration show. Ordering instead for a traveling party to be organized immediately, as they were headed to Emprise Du Lion. It was the only area reporting a high concentration of rifts that she had not yet visited. Hopefully the cold climate and the demon killing would help keep her mind off of --- well, _everything._

Scouts were sent ahead per her request, and Frey quickly scrambled to prepare for the long journey. Leliana had been insistent that they wait until the morning before setting off, but in her shaken state the Inquisitor could not let that stand. They would leave Skyhold tonight.

She would not spend another evening trapped within the same building as the Dread Wolf, not while he wore the face of the man she loved. She just couldn’t…

She just _couldn’t_ deal with this right now. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bull, Dorian and Sera. That was the party she’d settled on. Any normal outing would have brought Solas and Cole with her. The former Frey could not stomach right now for obvious reasons, the latter she could not trust around her tempestuous thoughts.

Already she was beginning to regret her choices. Dorian bitched incessantly about the cold, Sera told an endless stream of crude and ignorant jokes, and Bull…

Well, Bull kept shooting her these _looks_ whenever the others were occupied. Looks that spoke volumes about just how much she _wasn’t_ managing to hide from him. Looks that told her he saw right through her stoic (and mildly annoyed) facade, and through to the scared and lost little girl that trembled within.

Frey shrugged everything off as well as she could. They had only been in the Emprise for a handful of hours, and already there was a list of weeks worth of tasks to accomplish….and of course, it would be cruel of her to keep this one team out in the field so long, at some point she would have to send back for Varric, Cassandra and -- Frey almost flinched at the thought -- _Vivienne._

She would not return herself, of course. It would be easier to detour into Val Royeaux for supplies. Save an extra trip later. 

That was how she would justify it at least. In truth, it was that she had sworn to herself the first night away that she would not face the one who called himself ‘Solas’ again until she was _sure_ her emotions could be kept under tight control.

Corypheus had to be their first priority, and Frey could not focus on his threat properly while fear of the wolf who wore her heart’s skin hounded her every thought.

It was because of this that she cornered Iron Bull the first night at camp. Menial tasks such as gathering firewood or cooking meals were delegated to inquisition troops or scouts in the area. So Frey lured him from camp by suggesting he visit some nearby hot springs.

The look in his eye told her that he knew she was up to something, but the fact that he wandered off in the direction she indicated told her that he trusted her enough to play along. Frey set off after him shortly, pointedly ignoring Sera’s suggestively wiggling eyebrows.

By the time she arrived he was already waiting, arms crossed, expression a mix between curious and impatient. 

“So, Boss. You ready to tell me what this is all really about?”

“I guess I’ve been rather obvious.” she chuckled self-deprecatingly, taking a deep breath to steady herself before continuing, “There is something I need your help with, but it must be kept secret.”

His responding grin did not exactly fill her with confidence. “If there’s one thing I’m definitely good at boss, it’s keeping secrets.”

_Hah..._

Frey knows him to be good at lying and reading people, but with secrets… She knows he must be capable, given his role in the Qun, but…

The very first time they ever met he had revealed his identity to her, he spoke of the secret inner working of Qunari society over beer, and divulged the intricate details of what must surely be classified missions as if they were meant for casual conversations. 

Her scepticism was justified, she was sure of it. 

“I’m serious, Bull.” her voice came out harsher than intended, it sounded accusing, defensive. “Whatever I tell you cannot be repeated drunkenly in a bar, shared within bedroom confidence, or even hinted at in a report to your Qunari Leaders. If you cannot do that we will return to camp and never mention this again.”

A side of Bull she’s never seen emerges then. His whole expression goes dead for a moment, and when his face animates once more his eye is serious and cold, lips pressed tight in a grim frown.

“Ok, Kadan, I can do that. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Frey swallows and prepares to speak, though her tongue feels dead in her mouth and her throat is heavy with feeling.

“I need you to teach me to hide my emotions.” his eyebrow raises immediately in response and she hurriedly clarifies, “I cannot tell you why, but something has recently come to my attention that…” No, that phrasing won’t work, it gives too much away.

“I need to learn to hide my fear. At _least_ my fear. Anger and sorrow would also be ideal, though I realize we are on a considerably limiting time table.”

“ _Heh._ That’s putting it lightly. You’re talking about taking a skill that takes years to learn. You can’t master that in a couple months.” His arms are crossed across his chest, and he’s eyeing her head to toe appraisingly, perhaps thinking she could not learn at all.

And though Frey is loathe to admit it, his hesitance is not unfounded, she has always been blunt with her opinions and feelings in the past. Bull probably thinks her incapable of secrecy and deceit. After all, Frey is a notoriously awful liar.  
Heh.  
If only he knew the secret she harbored now...

“I will have to.” she replies instead, manifesting every inch of determination and meeting his steely, appraising gaze with her own. 

They lock eyes like that, and minutes pass, neither backing down or faltering, until eventually he nods. 

“Alright. I’ll meet you out here same time every night until we get this done.” Frey agrees eagerly, relief already flooding her and loosing her muscles. She thanks him and turns to head back to camp, already eager for the sun to set once more, surely Sola-- _Fen’Harel_ \-- has noticed her absence by now, as well as the aberration in her behavior. She never leaves Skyhold without him, and when she absolutely _must_ there is always a prolonged goodbye. 

Iron Bull’s hand on her arm halts her, and she turns back to him questioningly. 

“We start tonight.”

Oh. 

“Alright.” She says instead, steeling her heart and picturing the grinning, bloody-toothed wolf for determination, “Where do we start?”

“With a cover story.” His normal humor is working its way back into his voice, “Because you and I...sneaking off together every night...people are gonna assume we’re sleeping together.” 

Well, she hadn’t thought of it like that, but --

“That’s fine.” 

Bull’s eyebrows shoot towards his horns and a surprised sort of laughter bursts forth. “Works for me, Kadan. As long as you’re good with me grabbing your ass every once in a while around camp, you know, for the _realism._ ”

Frey chokes on a giggle-snort. 

“Don’t push your luck, Bull.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got carried away with the angst. 
> 
> So sue me. ;p

The Inquisitor has been gone for seventeen days.  
She has not written, she has not sent for him, she had not even told him she was _leaving._

And she has put Solas entirely beside himself in concern. 

When their traveling party from the Emprise returned to the fortress, Solas found himself swept along with the crowd, eager to see her face; dirt-streaked and exhausted as it may be. Yet he saw only Sera and Dorian, accompanied by a small patrol of guards and scouts. Not a single sign of Frey.

Later he would inquire on her whereabouts to Josephine, feigning casual curiosity, only to find that she had sent for Varric and Blackwall to join her in the Emprise. 

The Inquisitor sent no news otherwise -- said nothing of her well being, no explanation for her hasty departure, no hint of why she had suddenly decided to spurn him. 

No expected date of return. 

He could not ask more of her directly without seeming too keen, but Solas stuck around the diplomat’s office for far longer than necessary, asking question after leading question about their correspondences, trying to discover if Frey harbored so much as a passing thought for him.

It was pathetic, this longing for her. This loneliness and selfish anger that permeated him in her prolonged absence. She flirted with him, surely...but she flirted with everyone, didn’t she? Even the women, including _Sera,_ who he knew for certain Frey could not stand. 

_‘Not that it matters.’_  
Or so he kept telling himself.

There had been moments when he could have made his interest clear, times when she had been nearly begging for his touch, his kiss….or so he thought. 

Solas could no more act on it now then he could have then. It wasn’t fair to her. Or to himself -- he had to admit.  
So why did it feel like he had missed his chance? Why did he suddenly regret his inaction so much?

Why did she have to do this _now?_

Despite their platonic relationship, Solas found himself furious with her. She could not know it, but their days together were numbered; not just by the lifespan of the Inquisition, but the lifespan of her mortal being. 

How dare she waste this time, these precious days, _weeks_ they could have spent cherishing each others company before he would have to leave her. 

_‘You mean before you **betray** her.’_ a cold and mocking part of his mind prompted.

Not one to be taken in by despair, Solas attempted to focus his energy on his fresco.  
When that failed, he turned to his study of the shards; and when that too failed him he retreated to his private quarters to ~~brood~~ read.  
Eventually, mere hours later, he gave in to his loneliness; spelling himself to sleep just in order to see her again. Immersing himself in images, impressions -- so perfectly committed to memory. He had created them for the sole purpose of clinging to her; though they were not supposed to be needed until years after her death, when he could not bear another moment without her.

Apparently, it took less than a month without her to break down. To delve into his own subconscious and bury himself in the memories of her. Her laugh, that cocky little smirk she wore whenever she outsmarted him in a debate, the way she flushed so prettily when she flirted with him.

Fen’Harel wakes, disoriented to a heavy knocking on his door, reflexively reaching out for her but only finding the cool sheets beside him.

His unwelcome visitor tells him that he has been asleep for almost two days. Solas is quick to brush off concern, saying that he had put himself in a trance in order to contact a spirit friend of his. Citing a need to gather information on the magic Corypheus may be using to regenerate himself. It is not true, but it is a pretty lie. 

In truth Solas is taken aback, he has not lost time in the fade like that for centuries. 

Foolishly, he decides to seek company with Cole. The spirit never fails to distract and amaze him, a truly unique creature. Surely studying and conversing with him will serve to properly remove his mind from it’s current obsession.

Except, Cole sees his thoughts, knows his distraction. Compassion can see his tempestuous longing for news of her without understanding its context.  
And as such, speaks without care for his emotions.

“She disappears with him every night, comes back shaking, sweating, worn out. Iron Bull ruffles her hair and asks her ‘Same time tomorrow?’ -- same question every night, same response. She smiles and hugs him tights, so small in his arms. Sera says --”

“That is quite enough, Cole.” His voice come out too sharp, like a reprimand. The spirit’s face falls, he is disappointed.

“I’ve upset you? But why? You wonder about her, worry about her. _What is she doing, is she alright, is she happy, does she think of me?_ ” The spirit recites the last sentences in the heated voice he gets when he is giving voice to the thoughts of others. It makes him wonder…

Does he truly sound so desperate? Is he so lost, adrift in a sea of doubt and self recrimination, without her that his thoughts can be reduced to such heartsick pining?

“I was just trying to help.” the boy says, as if he has not just sundered Fen’Harel’s entire world.

“It is fine Cole, I understand you meant well.”

Quickly he tries to excuse himself, but no amount of mortal haste can put enough distance between himself and the boy’s last words, “She thinks of you, misses you, but then...doesn’t. Walls constructed in her mind to keep you out.”

-

-

It is _madness._

If anything he should be _pleased_ that she has found her physical comforts with The Iron Bull. Was that not why he remained resistant to her flirtation and charms in the first place? She deserves better than him, she _deserves_ someone she could build a life with, someone who would not build their entire future with her upon a towering mountain of lies.

……..

She _deserved_ someone who was her intellectual equal, someone as open minded and skeptical as she. Someone who could debate with her for hours on tiny nuances of spell casting. Debating whether it was a more valuable skill to be able to cast a more enduring barrier spell slowly, or a weaker version quickly.  
Not a graceless giant who could not think for himself, whose very religion would have her bound and silenced. 

She _deserved_ someone who could sing her familiar elvhen lullabies when she was distraught, someone who would understand her culture, who could speak to her in _her_ language…

Someone who -- 

_‘Someone who can make her happy.’_

‘Solas’ was that person; Fen’Harel was not.

At this moment he would eagerly trade the future of all Elvhen if he could just be that man for her. If he could simply erase his past, to be the unassuming apostate she assumed he was. If they could have a future together, a life full of laughing children and wedding anniversaries. To be able to grow old together, to die and be buried side-by-side.

It was the life she deserved, the life he dearly wished he could offer her. But…

They are empty and selfish, these dreams of his. 

Fen’Harel _cannot_ place the happiness of one mortal woman above the fate of their people. No matter how much he _wants_ to, no matter how much he loves her. 

_‘Ir abelas, Vhenan.’_

Perhaps in another life….

\--------

Solas suffers through nine more days without her before she finally storms through the gates of Skyhold. The first thing he notices are her eyes. They are cold and focused, normally brimming with honest emotion, Frey crosses the grounds with long, mechanical strides. This does not look like a triumphant return home, this looks like a woman on a mission.

Despite his best attempts to head her off in the hall, to place himself in a position so as she cannot ignore him. Solas cannot _force_ her to acknowledge his presence, but she must at least _look_ at him. Yet she does not. She speaks to no one, looks no where but ahead, and marches straight into Josephine’s office with Bull at her side. _Bull.._

The dark grey contrast of his skin against the delicate curve of her shoulder. The way he put on a little show for her, stepping to the side and pulling the ambassador’s door open with an exaggerated flourish and bow, gesturing her through first. 

The way Frey covered her mouth with one delicate hand and _giggled_ \-- eyes lighting up for the first time since her return, lighting up the way they should have done when she’d seen him again; when they’d been reunited.

Before she left, before this long drought of her affections, Solas would have sworn she felt it too. This pull, this feeling that drove him against all sense to spend every available moment just being near her. Memorizing the sound of her voice and the way she crinkled her nose when he proved her side of an argument wrong.

Fen’Harel watches her disappear towards the War Room, and thinks himself a fool for not claiming her affections when he had the chance.

\---------

It just gets worse and worse.

An alliance with the Qunari. From what Solas knows about modern day Thedas this is a completely new concept. The Qunari ally themselves with no one, they serve only the demands of their philosophy turned religion.

Yet, Frey had departed immediately for the Storm Coast to negotiate. She did not take him with her, despite his vocal objections. Once or twice he could have sworn she _flinched_ at the sound of his voice.

What had he done to earn such scorn from her? He can not even guess, and that distresses him easily as much as this dangerous ‘partnership’ does. The Qunari are not to be trusted, they will always attempt to tilt things into their favor, how can she not understand?

Skyhold itself seems to hold it’s breath as they await news, and Solas worries endlessly for her health. 

Frey trusts Bull too much, allows her feelings to cloud her judgement. If negotiations go poorly will the Qunari protect her against his brethren, or will he choose duty over her precious friendship? Will he turn on her if the Qun so demands?

It keeps him from sleep. Two long nights are spent pacing the rotunda, keeping an eye pointed towards the Rookery lest an urgent message arrive for their Spymaster. Josephine is the only other soul who seems to share his level of concern. More often than not he finds her pacing the empty hall long after the servants have gone to bed.

Eventually, they receive news from the coast, and when they do it is not promising. The treaty fell through. That is all they are told. A Qunari dreadnaught destroyed, with no official explanation offered. No word on the Inquisitor, no report of Iron Bull’s status, no justifications. 

The keep waits on baited breath for their Inquisitor’s return. Meanwhile Solas wars within himself -- what should he feel, relief? She will be free from any duplicitous intentions of the Qunari, that is certain; but in the same stroke she has lost herself a valuable ally. In the End it does not matter.

**He is angry.**

_He is angry_ that she has shut him out of her life so completely.He is angry that she did not involve him in this, that she did not want him there to protect her. He is angry that she led him on, flirted shamelessly, made him think he was important to her, before she turned her gaze away and never thought of him again. 

Plans are carefully torn apart and rebuilt. How to approach her upon her return, how to be sure she cannot evade him this time? What should he say, how should he act? Should he apologize for whatever wrong he may have done to her, or should he be indignant -- a close friend abandoned without a word of explanation.

In the end, there is not much thought behind his actions when she returns. From the ramparts he has taken to walking -- agitated, late at night when he cannot sleep -- Solas watches her return. Waits (eavesdrops) patiently as she debriefs her advisors on the circumstances that lead to the violation of their alliance. Watches as she retreats to the bar, slung over the Bull’s back like an adolescent. Watches as she is carried back to her room, draped over the recent Tal-Vashoth’s shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

\--------------------

Fen’Harel manages to wait nearly a full day after Frey’s return before he corners her within her own quarters. Once upon a time he had cast spells that took years to even _prepare._ Once upon a time he would have considered a century not _that_ long to wait. 

But today, today even twenty-four hours had been hard to endure.

Her door is unlocked, and Solas does not announce himself. Frey has avoided him for long enough that he will not allow her to refuse him her company by simply neglecting to answer, or turning him away at the door. Tonight they will talk, tonight they will resolve this rift between them. Their friendship will be rekindled, and once again she will seek him out for council and comfort. 

He needs those things to be true.

When Solas enters she is standing with her back to him, in nothing but her sleeping gown, washing her face from a basin. 

“What’s the matter, did you forget s--- oh!” Her eyes widen only for a fraction of a second before her expression regains its composure. For all the world she looks totally unaffected by his presence, and for some reason that disturbs him above all else. 

“Solas,” she greets him with the slightest of nods, turning back to her vanity with no other sign of greeting or indication of...of anything. She does not seemed pleased to see him, nor does she seem annoyed.  
Ambivalence is all he gets.

Solas remembers when the mere sight of him could split her face into a smile.

What had he done to squander that?

He can think of nothing, well, nothing she could reasonably have learnt. And since it is indifference and not righteous fury that she now greets him with, Solas can be sure she has not discovered his true nature.

Silence extends between them, uncomfortably. 

Once they had only leisurely silences, time spent reading together, or the odd occasion where she would merely sit and watch him paint….Solas was hungry -- no, _ravenous_ \-- to have that again. In her best interests he had forsworn any romantic relationship with her, but...he needed to have _something._

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Meticulously she braids her hair, looking intently into the mirror. Not at him.

When was the last time she looked at him, really looked at him? Suddenly it is too much to go another second without the weight of her lovely amber eyes on him. 

“Lethallan.” In his pseudo-panic his voice comes out sharper than intended, a hard and angry edge to it that he never intended. Still she does not turn.

“Yes? If this is about your opinions on my recent decision regarding the alliance with the Qunari, I must insist you take your issues up with my--”

_“Freija!”_

Her full name, he has never used it before, it had felt too intimate, too inappropriate for their ‘official’ relationship. But now he was desperate, and above all else: it _worked._

Finally.  
She turned to face him, mask crumpled. Her expression was...vulnerable, open, angry.

“What?! You think I should have made the _logical_ decision? The Qunari had more military and political weight than the Chargers, and therefore they were the reasonable choice? In the ten seconds that I had to decide who lived and who died, should I have done _calculations?”_

 

_‘Fenhedis.’_

The dealings with the qunari had upset him, yes, but he was not _there_ ; and he cannot judge the decision she made aptly when he does not know the circumstances. 

This is not why he came here. 

Logically, Solas knows he should not engage her on this; but he _is_ angry, and when he opens his mouth to respond he finds himself playing right into her distraction. Voice raising in volume as he stalks towards her. 

“It was no grand feat of moral thought, _da’len_ , simple math would have sufficed. From what I have heard, dozens of souls perished on that ship. How many _mercenaries_ were there to lose, a handful? _‘Good people’_ do not win wars, Inquisitor, soldiers do.”

There was no real passion behind his words, for he did not believe them. Not that she seemed to pay any notice. He was simply filling a role, any body, and voice would have sufficed. Frey merely needed an outlet for her rage, a voice to her doubts.

Fen’Harel wished he could say he was doing this for her benefit, but the truth was he needed this confrontation -- any confrontation with her -- just as dearly. 

“You truly believe that? What would the Qunari have done for us? We do not _know_ , we _cannot_ know. The Chargers helped us discover the envy demon that was using people’s faces, they helped us scavenge Haven’s ruins, brought survivors to us, trekked around for weeks in the muck with dummies and extra tents just to inflate our numbers, stole mercenaries out from under the sway of Orlesian nobles that may have sent them against us!. Whatever boon the Qunari may have brought, I found it _unreasonable_ that it would be equal in value to the services of Bull’s Chargers.”

A spark of petty jealousy in response to Bull’s name ignites the subtle roar of his temper into a fiery blaze -- it is enough for him to continue to bait her. Now would be the time to attempt to stabilize the situation, sooth her rage and talk things out, if only he were thinking clearly -- if only _anyone_ in this room were thinking clearly. 

Instead, he chooses this moment to begin prodding at her rumored relationship with The Iron Bull. 

“Truly? Your choice had nothing to do with how _close_ the two of you have become recently?”

They are standing quite close to each other now, near enough that Solas can feel the warmth of her. Her head is tilted back to meet his eyes, posture full of challenge and rebellion. This is not a fight she will back down from, and he is not sure he wants her to.

“How dare you imply that I would let my personal relationships cloud my better judgement! Bull is --”

“So you admit there is something between you?”

Jealousy is a pretty and vile emotion. Solas knows that; nothing good can come of him accusing her of this, of acting as though she has done him any disservice. He does not have a claim on her, yet he continues to act like a cheated lover. 

“That’s not -- argh! Why do you even _care?_ ”

Fury and passion paint her features with even more beauty. It is clear Frey has needed this outlet for her emotions dearly. Solas had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that in the absence of their friendship she had been turning to Iron Bull with her problems. But just looking at her now he could tell that was not the case.

Whatever reason she had withdrawn from him, it had crippled her too. Her stony facade lies in ruins, and he can see loneliness and isolation in the lines of her face.  
It should have flooded him with relief -- this proof that she had not replaced him.

It _should_ have, but the confusion and rage are too strong. His emotions bleed freely into each other like wet paint, affection and anger becoming one until he can no longer contain it.

“Why do I _care?”_

He takes a step forward, she gives ground predictably, expression flickering for a moment to an emotion he can’t read. 

One step.

“You do yourself a disservice _Inquisitor,”_

Two steps, there is a wall at her back now, and she can retreat no further.

Three steps and his hands come to rest on the stone, bracketing her shoulders, their bodies a mere inch apart. The rise and fall of her chest has quickened and her pupils dilate until there is but a sliver of color remaining. The predator in him is practically roaring it’s approval, confusing signs of arousal with those of fear and submission.

She _does_ still want him.

“ ..pretending you do not know what you do to me.”

His lips close in on hers until he can feel the warm puffs of her breath, but she turns her face away at the last second. A small rejection, but it still stings, and without thinking he reaches for her chin, pitching it firmly between his fingers and _making_ her look at him. 

A tremor runs through her, her eyes dart rapidly between his eyes and mouth. He should really stop this, respect her wishes, the distance she has forced between them. He should walk away right now.

He _should…_

Instead, Fen’Harel makes debatably what may be the ~~worst~~ best decision of his life.

He kisses her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case this chapter didn't make it clear, I am not sticking to the canon timeline of the game.
> 
> The fact that DA:O and DA:I are meant to take place inside of a year always seemed like silliness to me.
> 
> All that travelling, much of it presumably done on foot... Well, assuming Thedas is only as large as America is should still take a minimum of 6 months to walk across just _once._
> 
> Also, I find that it cheapens some of the plot events and diminishes the significance of any relationships built for it to have been such a short amount of time. So, yea. I've expanded the time frame by, like, a **lot**.
> 
> Sorry :/


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Non-graphic smut a-hoy!*
> 
> Also, trigger warning for those set off by non-con. 
> 
> If that's alright with you, enjoy! 
> 
> :]

Stupid, _stupid_ girl. 

Picking fights with Fen’Harel, posturing, blatantly egging him on. She had forgotten herself in her grief, her anger at herself for making a choice she still wasn’t sure of. Frey had allowed herself to forget what he was, if just for a minute. And then…

The cost of her thoughtless actions made itself known.

She caught the very moment his eyes hardened, the way his head tilted to the side and his lips pulled up into a sneer that would have almost been oddly attractive if the whole change in him hadn’t made her heart seize. Adrenaline and atavistic fear shoot through her, immediately raising her pulse and before she can stop herself she is backing away.

He is speaking to her, but her ears are buzzing with panic and she catches only his tone. The violent edge of it slicing through her anger and bravery like butter until nothing of the _Inquisitor_ remains. Cool stone meets the flushed skin of her back and Frey lets out a small gasp without thinking. Limbs beginning to tremble.  
She is nothing but a scared Dalish maiden now, and the Dread Wolf has _definitely_ caught her scent. 

The shock that has kept her gaze frozen is broken when he leans in close. Solas is not even visible to her any longer, Frey sees only the stone carved wolves in the line of his features. She imagines sharp teeth and red eyes as he leans in. Reflexively she looks away, not wanting to witness whatever it is he will do to her now.

But of course he will not let her turn from him. His grip is merciless and firm as he turns her back towards him. He is even closer now, lips hovering near her own, slightly parted. Is he going to…?

Yes.  
He is...  
He _is_ kissing her.

 _No._  
The **Dread Wolf** is _kissing_ her.

_No no **no!**_

Her arms fly up reflexively to rest on his chest when his tongue pushes past her lips. She is afraid to push him away, afraid to respond to his attentions, afraid to _not_ respond.

Fingers trail roughly through her partially braided hair, undoing her meticulous work; and Frey’s hands spasm on his tunic in response, ready to shove him back until he growls into her mouth.  
 _‘A warning,’_ she thinks. _‘don’t fight it.’_

A vision flashes behind her eyes, a distant memory. Mabari hounds battling playfully in the street when they had passed through Redcliffe. Frey remembers the signs dogs send each other, the ways they show dominance and submission.

Well, dogs are kind of like wolves.. right?

With sudden conviction Frey tears her lips from his and tilts her head upwards, exposing the line of her throat to him. It’s not exactly a soft underbelly, but it will have to do. 

The Wolf does not miss a beat. Immediately his lips are on the tender skin of her throat, teeth nipping at her just enough to leave marks and make her legs shake. His hands must have been busy unlacing her nightgown, because it falls away from her shoulders quite suddenly and Frey shivers with a combination of cold and embarrassment. 

Immediately his hand comes up to knead at her right breast, his grip on her rough enough to elicit a small hiss. Nails scrape against the delicate skin of her thigh as his free hand hitches her left leg over his hip, pressing his arousal against her center, _hard._

Despite herself, Frey moans and Fen’Harel answers by grinding himself against her. So much pressure, it’s almost painful but…

Soft, warm lips close around her ear and it’s too much. The fear, the pleasure tinted pain of his ministrations. He pinches her nipple roughly and Frey has reached her limit. Her free leg gives out beneath her and she slumps into his arms with a startled gasp. 

Then, everything stops. 

His attentions are withdrawn, both her feet placed back on the ground, and Frey could swear she hears him breathe a soft chuckle. It is confusing, has he changed his mind, decided he would rather have her blood that her body? But no, Fen’Harel smiles down at her, actually _smiles_ before gracefully sweeping her off her feet and laying her softly onto the bed.

 _‘Of course,’_ she thinks, finally taking a moment to think straight, _‘He thinks I do not know his true face.’_

It calms her only mildly. She thinks of telling him to go, telling _‘Solas’_ to go, but fear still holds her tongue. Sure, he is Solas _now,_ but how quickly can the mask be removed? How would he treat her if she defied him? Frey could not possibly know, because she never _has._

Seconds pass and the bed dips beside her, drawing her thoughts as well as her eyes. He is watching her expectantly, clothes in a neatly folded pile on the bedside table. 

Truly, she cannot deny he is beautiful like this, and she eagerly tells him so. It seems the sort of compliment that may please a god’s ego -- and the longer he is pleased, the longer she is safe. Frey tells herself that the strange emotion that permeates her when he blushes and smiles almost shyly in response is relief.  
Maybe she even believes it.

He returns her compliment in elvish, brushing her disheveled hair from her face as he crawls over her. Frey wonders how long he will allow her to be a passive partner. Surely she will have to reciprocate his attentions at some point, or risk displeasing him. Yet his face shows no sign of dissatisfaction, and he asks her for nothing as he presses his lips lightly to her collarbone, her breasts, her ribs…

Is he..?

Surely a god would not debase himself by pleasing a mere mortal, but --  
 _Oh!_

No one has done _this_ for her before; and it feels so good that Frey wants to scream, to squirm, to wrap her thighs around his head and hold him there until she has had her fill.  
But…  
She cannot force herself to forget that it is _Fen’Harel_ giving her this pleasure, and that thought sobers her.  
Though not nearly enough to curb her pleasure completely.

Despite her attempts to resist, small mewls of pleasure escape Frey almost continuously. Her hands twist into the plush covers in an attempt to not reach for him, as she seems to ache to do. Pleasure arches through her like spelled lightning and Frey is unable to stop her hips from thrusting again his tongue. She expects immediate censure for her flailing but in response he merely moans, creating a sinful vibration that only pushes Frey further into delirium.

Careful hands come up to hold her hips and his onslaught on her center turns merciless -- forcing her higher and higher until she just can’t take it anymore. And Frey comes apart beneath him.

The shout she looses then must be audible even from the stables, and once her eyes flutter back open Frey is almost enchanted by the self-satisfied look on her lover’s -- no, he is _not_ her lover -- on _Fen’Harel’s_ face.

Lazily he crawls back up her body, stopping frequently to press chaste kisses against her feverish skin. Shivering when he finally comes back to rest above her, the heat of him a presence equal parts ominous and alluring between her legs. If she were to raise her hips even an inch she would feel the length of him against her -- and Frey is scandalized by how much she almost _wants_ to.  
Stormy blue eyes catch her own and hold her captivated in his gaze, hypnotized by the cacophony of emotion visible behind them. Slowly he lowers his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering closed as he leans in. A thick sort of silence builds between them as she waits for him to move, to speak; and when he _does…._

 _‘Ar lath ma, Vhenan.’_ It is barely a whisper, his lips ghosting against her own as they shape the words that shake her to the core. No doubt she will pontificate on his motivation later, after all, _Fen’Harel_ surely doesn’t love her, and Solas -- Well, _'Solas'_ is just the name given to the game he currently plays.

..But, these thoughts won’t come until later, there is no chance for them now to take root. For as he breathes those treacherous words against her mouth he also surges forward against her, filling her in one smooth, devastating stroke.

 _‘Solas...’_ despite herself Frey sighs his name, and his next thrust seems to stutter for it. He may be a god, but it seems he is as much a slave to mortal pleasures as the next man. 

Frey decides to use that knowledge to her advantage, rationalizing that it will make this whole ordeal end much sooner; and pointedly ignoring the voice inside her that just wants to see him quake like that again.

Her legs wrap tightly around his waist and she begins to rock slightly against him, in time to his rhythmic thrusts. 

The response is immediate , and Frey is ~~doubly~~ triply rewarded for her efforts.  
His breath sharpens against her neck where he has pressed his lips solidly to her pulse point, while his thrusts turn more frantic and hurried. This new tempo satisfies her, he is _wilder_ like this and it is easier to remember who he really is; easier for Frey to see through to the wolf behind the veil of her heart.

What Frey will not acknowledge is that her actions also allow him to sink deeper, to touch a spot inside her that makes her eyes slide shut and her heart race. 

_‘Creators, this shouldn’t feel so good.’_

~~Solas~~ Fen’Harel has begun muttering senseless elvish in her ear, holding himself shaking above her on only one arm now as he drags her own hand from it’s resting place on his shoulder blade and down to her clit. Urging her to quickly touch herself before he shoots his arm back out for support, his entire form unsteady with pleasure above her.

And, well, Frey knew her passive roll couldn’t last. A slight change in position was one thing; but to willingly bring herself to pleasure while the Dread Wolf thrusts into her…  
Not that she has another choice here, really.

Unsure and already not thinking clearly, enjoying this more than she is anywhere near comfortable with, Freija’s fingers begin stroking a familiar rhythm out against her clit.

The added touch is just enough to push her back over that edge, making her inner muscles clench in senseless pleasure, and then everything falls like dominoes. 

Fen’Harel lets loose a guttural moan against her ear as she feels him pulse and twitch inside her. He collapses partially on top of her, skin slick with sweat and panting softly in her ear.

Frey is afraid to move, and minutes pass just _lying_ there in the Dread Wolf’s afterglow. The kisses start softly on her neck, placed gently over top of the marks he gave her earlier.  
 _‘An apology,’_ she thinks, _‘most likely.’_  
When he finishes inspecting his work, Fen’Harel pulls pack, locking eyes with her once more and just….looking for _something._ Frey isn’t sure what.

Minutes pass...

 _Finally_ he slides out of her, collapsing beside her with a contented sigh. More than anything right now Frey wants to get up and clean herself off, but his hand catches her own immediately, tangling their fingers together. The sweetness of the gesture makes her lip want to curl -- it is the kind of easy intimacy Frey used to daydream about having with Solas.

How cruel of him to finally give her these touches now; now that they are meaningless.

She wonders if he intends to stay the whole night, Frey knows she will not get a wink of sleep if he does. The whole room smells different, a combination of both of their normal musks and the heady smell of sex; the mixture makes her stomach turn.

Will he want this _often_ now? Always?

“Vhenan..?” his voice is questioning, uncertain. She responds with an empty humm, inviting him to say his piece. Frey hopes he does not expect her to return the endearment, she doesn’t know if her stomach could handle saying those precious words to the Dread Wolf; and any retching after sex was sure to draw his ire.

“Are you alright? I am sorry if my performance left you wanting, it has... been quite some time since I last shared such intimacy with someone.”

A tricky question. Luckily for her, _‘lying with the truth’_ had been a key part of Bull’s curriculum.

So Frey tells him that no one has ever tasted her before, and that the experience was not even comparable to her past dalliances. All true, and mashed together in such a way to soothe the Wolf’s ego without having to risk him sniffing out her true thoughts.

Eventually she works up the courage to politely ask him to ~~leave~~ give her space. She has an early morning and a long day ahead of her, and (Frey twists the truth once more) saying she would hate to disturb his sleep. Flattering him further by saying that with him in her bed how could she ever work up the will to leave.

That seems to placate him, though he does not leave until she promises he will be with her the next time she leaves the castle. It is an annoying reality, but given that the troops are not expected back for three more months _at least,_ Frey really cannot avoid bringing him with her for all that time. 

Not if she is to continue this clueless facade.

\----- 

As soon -- and yet not nearly soon _enough_ \-- as he leaves Frey tears the soiled sheets from her bed, placing them in an orderly pile on the floor for the maids to wash later.

She expects tears to come, but her heart is feeling remarkably numb after tonights events. 

Worn out, and after meticulously re-doing the braid he ruined, Frey retrieves the old woolen blanket she uses at her desk and settles down on the chaise. Emotional and physical exhaustion quickly catch up to her, and she is unconscious within moments.

And then, after over a month of endless nightmares filled with glowing red eyes and blood stained teeth: Freija dreams of _Solas._


	4. Chapter 4

The very next night Frey finds him waiting for her in her quarters, and her blood runs cold. Will this be her life now, will he expect access to her body every night?

He is frowning down at her bed, eyeing the fresh sheets with distaste and nostrils flaring until he notices her; and his face breaks into an expression of… happiness, love, joy? It looks strange on his normally serious and stoic features -- and more importantly, it makes it harder for her to look past the mask.

All day she had been tense, the normally trying Judgements being exasperated by his constant presence from the shadows of his doorway, watching her. Frey attempts to make herself clear without denying him outright and potentially provoking his wrath. Tells him she is tired, saddened by all the lives she ruled over. She expects his face to darken with disappointment, or, perhaps more likely, anger; and she is more than ready to submit to him again if it does, but..

A smile. She had not expected that. He offers his sympathies to her and suggests perhaps a massage, saying he knows a technique that uses small pulses of electricity to soothe the muscles. It sounds...well, it actually sounds tempting. Frey is not sure if she trusts his magic on her or not -- but she _must_ \-- if she is to fight beside him again, to trust the Dread Wolf at her back, she must overcome this knee-jerk reaction to him.

She must manage to convince herself that as long as he does not _know_ that she has figured him out, he will have no reason to turn on her. So...she acquiesces.

And she was right. He plays the role of _‘Solas’_ still, and is gentle with her. Frey does her best to relax and enjoy it, but knows he must be able to feel how tense she remains. Eventually she begs him off, citing a need for both of them to get a good nights sleep, as they set off once again for the Emprise tomorrow. 

Though he does not leave as Frey expects.  
Instead, he turns disturbingly affectionate, citing that they would do their best to enjoy what will be their last chance for intimacy in the immediate future. Throat dry and heart beginning to race, Frey stutters out another weak excuse.

“ _Ir abelas, lethallin,_ but I am still sore fro--” 

The tension that shoots through his body at her words alarms her into silence. He says nothing, but it takes her only a moment to realize her mistake. _‘Lethallin’,_ she had called him, when just last night he had professed love for her, called her his _heart._ Of course, she knows it was all for show, words artfully constructed to woo the ignorant dalish damosel -- but of course, he would expect her to respond in kind.

Schooling her expression into one of concern and affection she turns to face him, pressing herself into his arms and calling on every saccharine fantasy she had ever had about him; from before...well, from _‘before’._  
“Please don’t be upset, I’ve never -- “ but her efforts are unecessary. He is looking down at her with pain and understanding on his face.

“No.” he softly interrupts, “Do not push yourself _emm’asha,_ I long to hear the words in your voice, it’s true...but not before you are ready.”

Warm lips brush softly against her forehead as he pulls the covers over them both and gathers her up into his arms. It’s almost nice, she thinks; and decides to give herself over to that feeling for now.  
So she does...  
And with her eyes tightly shut and his smell filling her nose Frey is almost able to pretend it is really just Solas in her arms.

 

\--------------------------------------

On the road it is much easier to keep a safe distance, and for that she is grateful. 

Several times he tries to engage her in friendly conversation, but Frey is resistant, answering with single sentences when possible. Not encouraging debate. Bull is watching her with that _look_ again, but she refuses to encourage either of them, chatting up Varric instead; begging him to tell her story after story so that there is not room for much other talk.

The first night in camp does _not_ go well. Bull does not (of course) _know_ that the source of Freija’s distress is Solas himself, nor does he know what has happened between them. And as such he gets up at their normal hour and holds his arm out for her.

Immediately Frey can feel the air charge with static, and when she makes the mistake of shooting a glance in Fen’Harel’s direction his eyebrows are pulled into a sharp ‘V’ ; eyes shooting between her and Bull with a look of fury on his face that sends a shot of adrenaline through her veins. 

Not good.

In an attempt to diffuse the situation Frey stands, dusting herself off and trying her best to not look stressed. Bull has taken the situation almost entirely the wrong way and takes the smallest step to stand in front of her, as if he intends to make himself her shield. _Crap._

 _‘Ok,’_ she thinks, _‘how would I have handled this before?’_

Well, she wouldn't have been such a coward about it, that’s for sure. 

“Enough.” arms raised and heart in her throat, Frey steps between them, “You are acting like children.” shooting them both a scolding look. Fen’Harel surprisingly backs down almost immediately, looking properly chastised. Bull, looks less convinced.

“Bull and I have business to attend to..” Iron Bull smirks, Solas’ scowl return in full force. Varric lets loose a low and impressed whistle from across camp where he is carefully tuning Bianca. 

“Business, huh? That’s a new one, is that the going lingo for illicit affairs these days?”

Oh for the love of--

“I am not sleeping with Bull.”

The dwarf raises a single, skeptical eyebrow. 

“Is that so, well, the servants talk Pidgeon; and I know _somebody_ mussed up your sheets the other night.”

Solas clears his throat and Frey turns about sixteen shades of pink. Bull does not look pleased.

“Has he hit you?” He asks when they are alone; and Frey understands why that is the conclusion he’s come to. It was a bad decision, bringing him along, of course he can tell she is afraid of Solas. 

“He hasn’t hurt me Bull, you’ve misunderstood.” she lies to him with the truth, just like he taught her to. And it’s true. Fen’Harel has made no move to injure her.. _yet._

Unless you count some harmless love bites. 

The look he gives her is annoyed, and not at all tricked by her non-answer -- but he lets the topic go and they go on with their normal lesson. It seems an unspoken agreement between them that this will be their last one.

When they return to camp Frey is exhausted and doesn’t think, she picks an empty tent and settles down to sleep.  
It doesn’t occur to her until the next morning that perhaps Solas had been expecting her company. 

\-------

The next day sees Bull and Solas back at each others throat; in what might be the most passive-aggressive pissing match Frey has ever seen.

They’re playing _chess,_ exchanging quips and thinly veiled insults. Distracting doesn’t begin to cover it. 

Neither of them even try to engage her, and it gives Frey too much time to think, to analyze. Fen’Harel seems so much like….well, so much like _Solas._ Same cutting, dry wit and propensity for starting well-meaning philosophical arguments. She tells herself that it is her mind playing tricks on her, that the time she spent apart from him after learning the truth has colored her perception.

She had just _assumed…._  
Well, she had assumed that knowing the truth would have cleared away some sort of fog. She had assumed there would be some veiled cruelty to his actions, a glint in his eye or an edge to his voice. Something she would be able to see now that she knew the _truth._ But…

He just seems like _Solas._  
 _‘No.’_ she shakes the thought off. It is just good acting. How could she think otherwise, he was the trickster, Fen’Harel had conned the very _gods._ What chance did _she_ have to see through his lies?

It was just her own wishful thinking. She wanted Solas back: her friend, her mentor, her _heart._

Frey spends the rest of the day pointedly ignoring her travelling companions, reciting Dalish legends in her head, prayers, anything to give herself a break from her tempestuous thoughts. 

\----

When she settles down to sleep that night there is a single Hyacinth on her pillow. A flower that means forgiveness; and for a moment Frey is confused. She has seen this flower used before, between couples in camp that had fought, or when one partner had been unfaithful. 

It glows softly when she touches it, and warmth runs through her to the tips of her toes, filling her with a deep feeling of sorrow and regret. 

_‘An apology,’_ Frey realizes. Left here by Solas to ask forgiveness for his juvenile behavior with Bull. Her heart surges with affection and longing for but a moment before she stomps it down, fingers flying to her ring for strength.

Frey recites the legend of the Dread Wolf’s treachery to herself _twice_ that night before she lets sleep claim her.

\-----

 

There is a moment of hesitation the next day when, while wandering the Emprise, Solas announces that he senses an elvhen artifact nearby. 

Freija stiffens. 

Those orbs. _‘Strengthening the Veil’_ Solas had said, but was that their true purpose? Well, if backed into a corner Frey would have to say…. _yes?_

Areas in which they had located and powered orbs had less reports of demon activity and new rifts forming. That was an undisputable fact. So why would Fen’Harel actually _help_ ~~her~~ the Inquisition? Without his advice they wouldn’t have even know the orbs existed…

But what motivation could he possibly have. Sure, the orbs were helping. The real question was, what else were they doing? A double edged sword, it must be. Nothing else made any _sense._ The Dread Wolf would _not_ help the shem, would not help the Dalish, would not help _anyone but himself._

Everything the Keeper had even taught Frey reinforced that belief. But if that had changed, well.

The only stories they even _had_ of Fen’Harel were thousands of years old, and hearsay at best. What if _he_ had changed? What if _Solas_ really--

 **No.** It was nonsense. Complete nonsense. 

She had to stop falling for this _act_ he put on. It was seductive in ways that pulled at the very fibers of her spirit, but it isn’t _real._

Freija shouldn’t have to keep reminding herself of that, and this will be the last time she falters.

\-------------------------------

Or so she promises herself. 

A hollow pact.

In her efforts to keep a safe emotional distance from him Frey is sure she has gone too far.  
Unfortunately, she doesn’t realize her mistake until almost two weeks into their journey.

Solas has begun to shoot her hurt looks, ‘wounded puppy’ would be an appropriate analogy. And it is far too late to backpedal when Frey realizes that in her eagerness to hide her true feelings from him she has neglected to give him any attention. Really. At all.

She has responded to all of his advances, yes. Small, chaste kisses on the lips, a hand on the small of her back. Gentle hands checking for injury after battle, the almost shy look in his eyes as he pressed a new pair of gloves into her hands; carefully enchanted to keep her fingers warm.  
But there are moments too when she slips up, when she cannot stand the feeling of the Dread Wolf’s hands on her; and can doubly not stand herself for enjoying them.

When they stop at a spring to bathe he undresses and slips into the warm water beside her. His presence, his _naked_ presence, unnerves her. Frey tries to convince herself that it is the vulnerability that disturbs her; but she is just as bothered by his proximity. Several times she finds her eyes drawn to his form, appreciating the understated beauty of him, under the guise of keeping the enemy within her sights. Frey loses sight of him for only a second, dipping beneath the surface to rinse her hair, and when she emerges the gentle (and in retrospect, purposefully seductive) friction of his hands on her waist causes her to stiffen and pull away. 

It ~~hurts~~ upsets him, she can tell; but still he makes no move against her; keeping a respectful distance until they are both clean.

Honestly, Frey isn’t even sure what _normal_ interaction between them would be. There is no official relationship, they have not exactly _talked_ about this thing between them. It is possible he is as confused as she is, he knows plenty of the Dalish, sure, but every clan has their own courtship customs. 

Hah, like something as insubstantial as a gap in knowledge would hold back the Dread Wolf from taking what he wanted. 

Still, Frey would like to avoid answering any uncomfortable questions or having a confrontation for as long as possible. So she takes steps to reassure him. Walking close enough the next day to feel his body heat, letting her fingers brush against his as they swing. Engaging him in a very long-winded conversation about the difference (or lackthereof) between spirits and demons. Trying her damndest to manifest the same bashfully flirtatious aura he’d inspired in her _before._

Not enough, it would seem.

It’s on the sixteenth day in the Emprise that he pulls her aside after breakfast, leading her just far enough from camp to put a rocky outcropping between them and the others, enough distance for sound not to carry. Frey cannot express how not ready she is for this conversation, or to be alone with him at all. The fear is still there, yes -- but more than that now. She cannot trust _herself,_ spending any amount of time with him has proven dangerous to her resolve. Leads her to question her convictions about who he really is, which is without a doubt exactly what he wants.

 _‘Trickster, traitor, **monster**.’ _ her brain tirelessly reminds her, still not managing to completely drown out the protests of her heart.

So _this,_ this cannot happen. 

“Vhenan, you--” he begins, already manipulating her with that heartbroken look. The pleading quality to his tone threatening to crack her. Frey cannot have this conversation. She needs to shut him up, take his mind off of her lack of affection for him. So she kisses him.  
Hard.  
She _cannot_ enjoy this, she has slipped enough already, so she will be rough with him, force him to be rough with her.  
Pressing her body tightly against his Frey nips at his bottom lip, already fumbling for his belt. This is familiar, far more comfortable for her than soft sheets and tender lovemaking. Every experience she had before him was up against a tree, bent over a convenient rock, a quick dirty tumble in grass and mud. She calls upon those experiences now -- or she _would_ have done -- if he hadn’t grabbed her shoulders, pushing her to arms length firmly and holding her there.

“ **No.** ” He says, and there is finality in his tone, as well as an unnerving dash of menace.

“ _No?_ ” Frey repeats him dumbly, fighting the urge to wince at her idiocy.

“I simply wished for a moment alone with you, ma sa’lath, to _talk._ We have not shared a proper conversation since our return from the arbor wilds and ….and your subsequent _absence._ ”

His grip on her shoulders loosens, hands sliding reassuringly down her arm. But Frey’s head is still spinning from his endearment. _‘My one love’_ , a phrase only used in romantic Dalish tales of tragic and eternal love. Solas is still talking, but Frey’s mind is folding in on itself and miles away.

 _‘Did the Dread Wolf just call me his soulmate?’_  
Even if their entire relationship _wasn’t_ a sham, that still seemed like moving a bit fast. Yet….If he had just been _Solas,_ Frey would have happily said it back. 

“Wuh-what did you want to talk about?” 

“Us, or more specifically, _you._ You have been distant, my heart. If you are angry with me, or if I have done something to offend ---” The vulnerability in his eyes makes Freija’s heart ache and before she can catch herself she reaches up to cup his cheek. She needs to reassure him. This suspicion will lead nowhere good; but more than that…

 _‘I never want to see him hurt like this again.’_ The thought is gone, banished as soon as it occurs, but it shakes her very foundation.

“You did nothing wrong. We argued at the temple, over the well. I was just giving you your space, I thought you might be angry with me still. And, well….afterwards, we were -- _you know_ \-- and I wasn’t sure how to act. This is all very new to me, and it was all so sudden, and-- _mmmn_ ”

This time _he_ kisses _her,_ effectively ending her babbling. She can feel his smile against her lips, letting her know that her lie has taken root. He believes her, and is more than satisfied with her fabrication. They share several slow, tender kisses before reluctantly heading back to camp; and Freija has to keep reminding herself afterwards not to keep running a finger over her lips. They tingle deliciously, sending thrills through her and making her chest traitorously warm.

This is not how it was supposed to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only technically half of chapter 4. A couple scenes refused to be written and I was itching to update. So....yea. 
> 
> Enjoy,  
> :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for this story (at least if you haven't read the prompt) in the endnote.
> 
> You have been warned.

Freija wakes the next day re-committed to hating him. Half the night she tossed and turned, old tales of his betrayal were no longer enough to keep her latent feelings for him at bay, so instead she tells herself _recent_ tales. After all, it was his power that gave her the anchor, _his_ orb. 

It’s true that Frey does not know the exact circumstances of the breach forming; beyond the fact that it was Corypheus who performed the final ritual she is all but clueless. Had Fen’Harel given him the orb for that purpose, or had the deceiver been deceived, lied to or stolen from?

Solas catches her eyes over breakfast and looks at her like she is the very center of his world. It makes her heart speed up and her gut clench.  
Frey shoots him a wide and completely ingenuine smile as she rises to don her armor.

Luckily, they’ll be busy today. No time for self-doubt or rambling, circular thoughts.

Unfortunately, just because the timing is not ideal, does not mean Frey is suddenly free of the endless theories crowding her mind. Even now, as she scrambles up a snowy ladder, Red-Templar abominations closing in on her; she manages to speculate on his motives. His deceptively gentle ways.   
She wonders why it is he has to pretend -- a sword comes down and nearly takes a good chunk out of her arm before a barrier pops up, not hers, and Frey flings her attacker off the scaffolding with a mind blast -- if he is truly so powerful, surely he could accomplish his goal more directly than…

Than what?

Than inflicting this mark on her, manipulating the formation of an Inquisition, earning her trust and affection so as to influence her choices?

It’s just so convoluted a plan that Frey doubts it on principle alone. Though she can think of no better explanation for his presence. Even if he genuinely wanted them to succeed for his own selfish reasons, couldn’t he serve them better from the shadows (where he would not have to limit himself), than by fighting at her side and pretending to be no more powerful than a gifted mage?

A behemoth rushes her and Frey quickly fade steps through him, freezing him into an easily shattered templar-cicle.

And why culminate this relationship with her? She was infatuated enough with him before _that night_ , he didn’t need to sleep with her to manipulate her decisions. Frey would have done nearly anything to please him _before;_ so if she was merely a means to an end, _why --_

The barrier around her flickers and dies suddenly, across the quarry Varric calls out for Solas. Freija stabs the blade of her staff into the neck of the templar she’s engaged with and slides down the ladder, panic filling her gut for reasons she doesn’t understand as she tries to locate his position.

_There._  
He’s slumped on the ground at the bottom of the scaffolding, staff arm clearly broken and bleeding _too much_ from a head wound.

_‘He can’t be dead, he **can’t** be. He’s a **god,** how could he even be hurt, why doesn’t he heal himself? **I don’t understand.’**_

Varric calls her name and Frey barely looks up in time to catch a couple poultices flying towards her head.

“You make sure Chuckles is alright, Tiny and I can handle the stragglers.”

Voice failing her as fear makes her heart race and her ears buzz, Frey nods weakly and hurries to his side.

This doesn’t seem real. She knows he is Fen’Harel, she _knows._ So how can he be bleeding out, how can he be broken? It doesn’t make any _sense._

Her limbs seem to move on their own as she applies the poultice to his head to slow the bleeding and tips one, two, three healing potions down his throat. Making sure his arm is set to heal correctly.

In all their fights before has he ever been this badly wounded? Frey doesn’t think so and surely she would remember. She is _terrified_ for him but she shouldn’t be. He’s the enemy, and even if he _weren’t_ \--- he can’t actually be in any danger, this is just for show. To prove he’s just as vulnerable as the rest of them.

_‘That’s it...just another trick.’_ Even as she comforts herself Frey doesn’t truly _believe_ it. Once upon a time Solas had told her that he believed the Elvhen gods had existed, though he insisted that they probably weren’t truly _‘gods’_. Far more likely leaders, spirits, or mages, he’d asserted. 

At the time Freija had thought it a silly theory, nothing but speculation with little to back it up. Now…

Maybe he was trying to tell her the truth, or at least, as much of the truth as he could allow himself at the time.

Something brushes gently against her cheek and Freija startles. He is awake, brow furrowed and looking up at her with so much raw emotion. There are tears on her cheek, how long has she been crying?

The wound on his scalp has closed and his face is already regaining color as the healing potions do their work, no doubt helped along by his own spirit magics. Frey bends over him, acting without clear thought or intent. Lips brushing over his closed wound before he pulls her down for a proper kiss with his clearly no longer broken arm. He tastes like elfroot.

“You’re alright?” she chokes out, voice unsteady.

“Mostly.” there is amusement in his voice, despite how close he apparently had come to death. And he steals another kiss from her before bracing himself on her shoulder to stand. “I will be weak for a few hours more, but I should be fine by tomorrow.”

“I’m glad.” she says, and _truly_ means it. But more than glad, more than relieved, she is _confused._

When Frey learned that he was Fen’Harel she had made assumptions about what that really meant; too many, apparently.

She would have to spend another sleepless night considering this. If her assumption about his true power, about his mortality, had been wrong…

Well, what other things might she have been too quick to judge?

What kind of man was the Dread Wolf _really?_

Frey would have to think about it, probably at length. But for now, until they got back to Skyhold, those thoughts would have to be restricted to at night in her tent. She could not afford to be so thoughtless in battle again.

Next time she might not be so lucky, next time it may be his neck that snaps.

Next time she could actually lose him. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Over the next week and a half Frey goes to relatively obscene lengths in order to keep busy while she sorts through her thoughts.  
She kills two dragons, takes down a handful of giants, has Mistress Poulin arrested and taken to Skyhold to be tried for treason.   
And, on the eleventh day, Frey decides it is far past time they liberate the nearby Keep and deal with that pesky desire demon themselves. 

She should have realized right from the beginning what a flop _that_ plan would be. Even upon approach to the fortress Solas goes disturbingly quiet. Suledin keep is elvhen, obviously. The name alone speaks to it’s origins, but even had it not.

Frey can tell as soon as she sees it in the distance how old it is, the beauty it must have once held, and for Fen’Harel...the memories. No doubt he will have much to say of this place, things seen _‘in the fade’_ which Freija has more recently been translating to, _‘when I was younger’._

But he says nothing.

It is strange, but not alarming. At least, not at first. The red templars are many and strong, and for a while Freija can excuse his silence as concentration. She even attempts to bait him, lingering in a particularly ornate room after enemies have been downed; even going out of her way to comment on the architecture and pontificate loudly over the meaning of a particular sculpture. Solas says nothing to correct or encourage her, and when Frey turns to speak to him he has a far off look on his face, like he is miles _(or perhaps centuries)_ away. She decides not to push.

_‘Why do I even care in the first place?’_ she asks herself, pointedly closing her ears when the answer is forthcoming. She is concerned over his odd behavior because she _cares_ about _him._ About _Fen’Harel._ Her brain has begun inventing excuses for his crimes, explaining away how he must have had the best intentions, painting him as a tragic would-be hero. 

_She_ has begun to feel guilty for lying to _him._ Despite all _he_ has kept from _her._ It is nothing short of madness. Or…  
Well.  
Who really knows anymore. Both perspectives make sense. Either she is blinded by her Dalish prejudice or she is blinded by her love for him. Which is worse? 

In the past Frey had never really questioned the history she ~~knew~~ had been taught. But….

She wasn’t an idiot. History could be rewritten and changed in a few months, let alone thousands of years. Hadn’t she seen Josephine do that time after time for the Inquisition? Whisper in a few ears, call in a few favors and suddenly she was a graceful diplomat, the hero that reunited Orlais. No matter that people had seen her skulking about the palace all evening, no matter she’d had to blackmail her way into getting even tentative ‘equality’ for the elves. 

Magnify that effect by a thousand years and, well...

OK., so maybe Solas isn’t the only one who suddenly seems to have a lot on his mind; and it bothers her how much she _genuinely_ wants to talk to him about it. Ironic that the person she would most like to confide in about her inner turmoil is the same one who has unknowingly caused it.

Their group fights to the top of the keep in uncharacteristic silence, powering on through to kill Imshael despite being worn down. Freija does not even stop to hear what he might have to say, merely launches herself wholeheartedly into mindless battle. 

Afterwards they raise the flag and wait patiently to receive a crow from camp, letting them know troops and supplies are on their way to claim the keep.

Finally done with their mission, Frey is alone in her excitement to explore the now templar-free halls. Normally this would be where Varric rolls his eyes while she and Solas skitter off to discuss elvhen culture and coo over a veilfire rune somewhere, but Fen’Harel will not even meet her eyes.

“Let’s head back down for the night Boss, we need to refill on potions and poultices and I think Varric is almost out of bolts.”

Reluctantly Frey agrees, it feels almost silly to back down now, but it is the smarter move. Surely the Red Templars holding this keep will not replenish their numbers in a mere eight hours or so. They should be fine, waiting to move in. No one will usurp their claim on the keep in the few days it will take the Inquisition to arrive. It’s just too bad Freija won’t have a chance to explore this place.

\-----

Everyone lightens up as soon as they are free from the keep, Varric starts telling stories of Desire demons he fought with Hawke, and some of their more ridiculous lines of coercion. Bull thinks it’s strange that they always appear in womanly, human proportioned forms. And, despite Solas’ continued heavy silence, Frey lets herself be pulled into the lighthearted conversation.

They pick up new supplies once they reach the nearest camp, a longer walk than remembered, but worth it. Dinner is had, armor is cleaned and checked for damage, and eventually they all retire to their tents for sleep.  
Or, to try to.

Frey cannot stop worrying about Solas. Something was wrong with him today. Bad memories? Maybe. The keep was old, it’s not unreasonable to think he may have visited it before sometime in his lifetime. She wants to help him...but...it’s not like she can just go _ask._ He’s probably asleep by now anyways. 

He will expect comfort from her, she tries, battling to convince herself to make a decision either way. They are in a relationship, and he was visibly upset, what kind of partner would she be if she did not go to help? Certainly she would not hesitate if he was merely Solas; but...

No, no buts. He _is_ merely Solas as far as she’s supposed to know, and if she is being honest with herself Frey is not entirely certain he was ever anything _but._   
_‘An elfroot by any other name’_ she reminds herself.

Annoyed with this indecision, she huffs and rolls over again, trying to relax and let sleep claim her; she begins counting a herd of golden halla in her head.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Five minutes pass and Freija finds herself wrapped in her blanket outside of his tent, trying to convince herself to either go in and _talk_ to him or get back in her bedroll where it’s comfy and warm. 

The scout on watch clears his throat loudly and raises an eyebrow at her. Frey resists the childish urge to stick her tongue out and finally reaches for the flaps of Solas’ tent. 

Strangely, she feels safer being alone with him in his tent than she did at Skyhold. Even if he is annoyed with her intrusion it would be stupid to hurt her here, no thick castle walls to silence her screams or ridiculously narrow staircase to slow those coming to help.   
Or maybe it has nothing at all to do with the location.

In her head a voice that sounds suspiciously like Keeper Deshanna’s scoffs and rails at her idiocy, at her willingness to trust Fen’Harel himself.

Maybe she doesn’t think he would _ever_ hurt her. At least, not anymore. 

Being honest with herself is exhausting. Trying to make decisions based on what she knows, not what she has been conditioned by years of Dalish tradition to feel, is exhausting. In fact, the only thing _not_ exhausting lately is just….being with Solas.

How long has it been since she had to convince herself to touch him, kiss him? How long since she stopped questioning his every action, looking for double meaning?  
She has dreamt of him every night since she learned his true name, but, she can’t even remember the last nightmare. When did she begin to see only _‘Solas’_ again? 

A wave of magically warmed air hits her as soon as she pulls the fabric back, and she darts inside as quickly as she can without stepping on him. He looks asleep, but it is dark and she cannot see his face. 

_“Solas?”_

Oh well, she came all this way at the cost of her dignity so she tries anyways, speaking in whispers as she inches closer.

_“Solas, are you awake?”_

Mistake. 

Frey knows it immediately, but is a bit too surprised by suddenly finding herself flat on the ground to defend herself or even evade.   
_‘Well, what did you think would happen you simple girl, sneaking up on a sleeping **wolf.** You’re lucky he didn’t light you on fire.’_

Strangely, attacking him or calling for help aren’t reflexive. And it sinks in as he rolls over her prone form in a fluid motion, stiletto blade suddenly against her collar; eyes glowing softly in the dark -- she is not afraid of him any more.

“Freija?” his eyes go wide and he pulls away from her as if she has burned him, flinging the blade away from himself, “I am sorry, years of….” 

Frey recognizes the pause, it’s telling once you know to look for it, as he forms a suitable lie. 

“sleeping in ruins, I learned to be ready for an attack by spiders or bandits any moment. Are you alright, Vhenan? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine, just startled.” He nods slowly, though Frey can see his eyes still searching her for injuries. His gaze heats her blood, but she ignores it. No matter what her body thinks, she is still too conflicted to initiate anything more sexual than a kiss between them; though she thinks now she may be brave enough to say ‘no’ if he tries.

“I was worried about you.” she ventures, when the silence and their strange positions crouching in his tent begins to feel awkward.

“Ah.” he says simply, rearranging his bedroll and laying her discarded blanket down. Buying time, Frey thinks, he does not know how to explain himself without lying, and cannot think of a suitable tale. 

Playing along, and also because her traitorous heart does _actually_ want to be back in his arms, she reclines on the fabric and holds her hands out for him. He joins her with little hesitation, but hesitation still. 

Perhaps he is having second thoughts about this thing between them? Frey is suddenly filled with strange anxieties. Is she too young? Does her limited lifespan bother him? Has he not enjoyed her kisses? Is he annoyed that they have not slept together since that first night? Is she prying too far, being nosey and obnoxious by disturbing his sleep?

_‘Don’t do this now.’_ she tells herself firmly, wrapping her arms around him and resting her face against the almost feverish skin of his neck. Physical comfort she can give, since he seems determined not to speak of it...whatever _‘it’_ was. Or perhaps he cannot tell her the truth, and no longer wants to lie. 

_‘Everything Fen’Harel says is a lie, a trick. He is manipulating you even now, fool girl, and you are loving every moment of it.’_ Keeper Deshanna scolds in her head, but Frey shuts her out firmly. Smiling softly at her love as he pulls away from her far enough to search her face. Something he has been doing often in the past weeks, though Frey can only guess at the purpose.

She relaxes under the scrutiny, fingers tracing mindless patterns on his skin. Sleep pulls at the edges of her conscious, and it is so tempting, he is so warm….

“Tell me..” he begins, and a frown pulls at Frey’s lips as she is abruptly aware again, and not entirely happy about it. “what will you do with the power of the Inquisition once Corypheus is dead?”

Not exactly pillow talk, but Frey has a feeling this conversation is probably important. Maybe it will lead up to what is really bothering him.

“I’ll try my best to help people, to move the world forward.”

His distaste for that answer is almost palpable, face screwing up in thought. Frey almost corrects herself, but holds her tongue. This conversation is about what is bothering _him,_ not about her annoying insecurity. 

“You would risk everything you had that the future would be better? What if it isn’t, what if you wake up to find that the future you shaped is worse than what was?”

_Oh._ Freija struggles to maintain an unsurprised expression. He’s speaking of himself, the past tense and the obvious reference to uthenera speak volumes but…

But, she cannot _think._  
Love for him is threatening to drown her in this moment. She wants to tell him that she knows who he is, wants to tell him that she doesn’t _care_ (even if that is not precisely _true_ ). That she forgives him for anything, _everything_ , that she knows he would never have acted without the best of intentions -- that just because it did not end well did not mean he made the wrong choice. You cannot judge a decision by the ultimate results, you must judge it on the knowledge available when it was made.

“I’ll take a breath, see where things went wrong, and then try again.”

She manages to choke out.

“Just like that?” 

_‘Yes, just like that. We kill Corypheus and then, together, we’ll put everything right again. Somehow.’_

“If we don’t keep trying, we’ll never get it right.”

A sad smile works its way across his features, and Frey wants so badly to kiss him and confess everything. Wants to stay awake in his arms for the rest of the night, listening to tales, _true_ tales, of his life. To ask him a thousand questions, to speak his real name.

“You’re right. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You have not been what I expected. You have impressed me, you have offered hope that if one keeps trying, even if the consequences are grave, that someday things will be better.”

It feels like love. In a way that his actual confession never did. Frey knows how he feels about the Dalish, and understand how they must look so small and foolish to him, a mere shadow of the elves he once risked everything for. 

Suddenly Frey feels as if she might be sick. Her worldview has been ungracefully flipped on its ass. Every belief she once cherished called into question. All for him. 

All for _Fen’Harel._

“Forgive my melancholy.” he looks concerned, her distress must have shown clearly on her face and he is worried. For her. 

She looks into his eyes, so soft and full of adoration. For _her._ A Dalish welp, completely uncultured, thrown into a position of power that she did nothing to earn, ignorant of her true heritage and yet...he looks at her like _that._

“Whatever comes I will have you by my side.” 

He fights for her, takes blows for her, sits with her late at night and listens to her juvenile concerns.

Tells her of the fade, patiently answers her endless stream of questions.

“Ar lath ma.” she blurts, regretting nothing.

A pained expression flickers across his face for only a moment before he pulls her in almost painfully tightly against his chest. A tremor runs through him, Frey can feel the trembling of his fingers where they rest on her lower back. 

“Ar lath ma.” he answers eventually, voice thick with too many emotions to name.

She squeezes him tightly in response, and bites back the words that hover treacherously on her tongue.

_‘Ar lath ma, Fen’Harel.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so. 
> 
> Only two more chapters to go.
> 
> -Next chapter the shit hits the fan (from Solas' POV).  
> -Then we'll have a final chapter where we get some fluffy smut and a happy ending. 
> 
> I can't believe how long this thing ended up getting. I think I'm gonna break 20k words. Wow. Go me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, eh?
> 
> ^__~*
> 
> Sorry for the delay.

It’s time.  
Her long anticipated confession of love makes it impossible to avoid. The words were exactly what he’d been waiting for, her openness, the acceptance in her eyes -- everything he’d dreamed it would be.

But it was all a lie. She doesn’t know it of course, but she does not love him. She _cannot. Because she does not even know who he is._  
So.  
He has to tell her.   
It’s time.  
Or no.  
If it’s honesty he has decided on, then honest he must be.   
It is far _past_ time. 

There are precious few days left until their troops arrive from the wilds; and Freija will no doubt want to move against Corypheus not long after. His window to confess his crimes is swiftly closing. _Their_ time is running out.

Soon this ‘war’ will be decided one way or another; and Solas cannot even begin to guess how this will play out, what will happen to the Inquisitor after the breach is sealed? He can speculate, surely, but why bother?

After all, every prediction he has made so far concerning the outcome of his actions has been proven wrong -- morbidly so, in some cases. 

The future is an unknown. But eventually he will be forced to leave this Inquisition, perhaps one day even to oppose it. There are steps he will be forced… _no,_ steps that he will _choose_ to take that may lead him into direct opposition of her. 

So it _has_ to be this way. If he is to have _any_ chance of keeping her, of staying with her through what is to come, he will have to tell her the truth.

And that terrifies him.   
Even though she has always proven to be open-minded. As skeptical as one could reasonably expect given her upbringing, willing to have her beliefs challenged and even prone to complete changes of view, given the right argument.

Unfortunately, Fen’Harel is unsure if there is _anyone_ out there open-minded enough to accept what it is he has to say.

He clings to memories that provide hope. Frey may not have handled the revelations at the Temple as well as she could have, but the Altar….. 

She had not even seemed particularly _surprised_ when Mythal had revealed herself. Even from her, Solas would have expected disbelief, perhaps reverence; but Frey had shown none of those things. 

Only later, when they left the Altar to return to Skyhold had she shown even cursory interest in the appearance of a _‘god’_ , asking Varric about his own interactions with the dragon-woman. 

When Solas asked her about her (non)reaction later she turned introspective for a moment before responding, “I’ve been trying to draw my own conclusions lately. So much of what I’ve always believed by default has been proven flawed if not patently incorrect. So what, she’s Mythal? I don’t even know what that means. To me she looked like a powerful ally, someone who could and _should_ be helping us more, and _isn’t._ I can’t respect that, so I can’t respect her.”

It disturbed him, how well she was taking this, how logical and distant she could be when drawing her conclusions. Now, if he told her the truth and she turned from him, he would not be able to blame it on his legend. It would mean that she took a long look at what he appeared to be in the here and _now,_ and _still_ found him wanting.

Or at least, in theory. 

Her open mindedness made deciding to tell her easier, but only just. The fact that she had been underwhelmed by Mythal _was_ surprising, but the benefits were unlikely to carry over to himself. Disappointment at the rather mundane reality of a heroic figure was one thing. Learning that the man you slept beside and trusted at your back was secretly your childhood nightmare, was another. 

Mythal was known for her greatness and passion for justice, but had appeared only as a tired old woman who withheld the little help she could give. The Dread Wolf was renowned for his treachery and deception; and what had he done these past months but prove those claims true.   
Fen’Harel had torn open the sky and lied about it. Told her fiction after fiction, twisting things to his advantage and deceiving everyone. 

No, he had certainly not failed to live up to her expectations. Had he?

She would never accept this, would never forgive him for what he had done, and yet.

_‘Ar lath ma.’_

Those words from her had been everything he’d needed and nothing he had imagined. She did not love _him._ It wasn’t her fault, she _couldn’t_ love him. Not until she knew. If he told her ~~who~~ what he really was -- assuming she did not attack him or run -- then maybe….

“Vhenan?”

The concern in her voice draws him from his thoughts. Moments ago she had been curled in his arms, completely oblivious to his mood given her absorption into the scout reports on her lap. Now she looks up, brow creased with worry.

He dismisses her fears easily, a chaste kiss to her forehead and a few calming words.

Tomorrow then. One last night to hold her, to ~~savor~~ steal kisses, to bask in the glow of her gullible affections for him. 

“It is nothing, do not worry yourself.” he says.   
After all, what is one more lie at this point?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Five hours later Fen’Harel finds himself wandering her dreams. He does not even try to justify these actions to himself. It is a breach of trust, intruding on her memories like this. But he needs _something._  
Perhaps he thinks he will find his courage here, some thread of hope he can cling to that -- even if she wants nothing to do with him after tomorrow -- that _someday_ they might be together, fully and honestly.

Yet what he sees here is hardly reassuring. As she slumbers in ignorance he sifts through the pages of her memory like a sacred text. Watches the lessons she was taught as a child, watches the way she is ridiculed for questioning the Dread Wolf’s motives, and again as she wonders why they worship gods who were conquered and locked away; surely they cannot help the clan if they cannot help themselves. 

As he journeys through her limited years the visions become more discouraging, she has bought their propaganda through and through.. She kills all wolves she comes across, even the pups, and tells the story of his betrayal to the clan’s young….

Perhaps he should tell her a more limited truth. Selective honesty. He could test the waters by revealing to her the truth behind the Vallaslin, then perhaps he could reveal his true age -- she already knew about Abelas and the sentinels, it would not be so much of a leap.

Then, maybe if she weathered those revelations, he could tell her his true name. The one he had chosen for himself, the one that defined him, for better or worse. 

No. He cannot give up yet. These memories are foreboding but old. If he is to gauge her current opinion he must find something more recent. 

Finding her memories of the Conclave and what came after are easy enough, an event so traumatic and life changing leaves deep scars on the mind. From there he skims. 

There is a conversation out by the infantry tent with Cassandra about the Dalish pantheon. The seeker attempts to convince Freija to include the Maker in her belief system; while his Vhenan tells Cassandra that she is not sure if she believes in any of them, not anymore. She also points out the hypocrisy of the other woman’s refusal to re-evaluate her own faith, and it makes Fen’Harel’s heart swell with pride and adoration.

If he loses her….even temporarily… he will still have a job to do, he will need to press on; he is just no longer sure he will be _able_ to.

Her loss will cripple him.

Next he finds discussions they have had together. He sees how much he wounded her when she came to discuss the elves with him, as far back as Haven. Even then she had wanted him. From this point of view that cannot be denied. Her thoughts are not directly legible through her memories, but there are plentiful visual hints. The way he seems to almost glow in the light, the way the memories seem to highlight his lips and shoulders. It almost makes him embarrassed, how beautiful he looks, _looked,_ in her eyes. 

If he were to review this memory again, days from now, after she knows ~~who~~ what he really is; what would he see then? Solas hopes he never finds out.

Next come some juvenile arguments with Sera. A conversation with the members of the Dalish camp they befriend in the Exalted Plains. Frey and Morrigan conversing after the temple of Mythal. 

He breezes through these memories, they are unimportant. Not what he is looking for.

Or so he assumes, but--

Without warning he is thrown into a nightmare, too vivid and violent compared to her other memories. He is unprepared for the intensity, and in the time it takes him to regain control he watches in agony as she trembles before the wolf.

This is how she sees him? A beast with no goal but his own satisfaction, a monster without mercy. A mindless animal out for her blood. But _how?_ How can it be this intense? It is a splash of vivid color amongst the shades of grey that composed her other memories. 

Multiple red eyes watch him from the darkness, Mocking. 

No. This is her nightmare, not his. He needs to get himself together, recollect his thoughts.   
Without stopping to consider his actions Solas thrusts himself forward, into her next significant memory ---- And sees her room, softly lit with candlelight. She is alone, ready for bed. Braiding her hair.

Wait…He _knows_ this memory. This was the night they first slept together. The _only_ night they’d slept together. Any second now he’ll walk through that door, they’ll argue, and then…

But already it’s different. Solas remembers her behavior this night as indifferent, but in her own reconstruction she looks: nervous, angry, frightened, exhausted. Her movements are jerky and harsh, face pale. Then he enters and perceived time folds in on itself. She does not remember their argument, at least, not clearly. Her mental state turns their words into a blur, and Solas has barely begun to speculate on _why_ when the scenery snaps back into harsh focus. 

This.. _This_ did not happen. He wouldn’t have _let_ this happen.

The air goes cold and thin around him, his expression contorts into one of cruelty and malice.She trembles in his arms, face contorting in fear. 

The image clashes with his own cherished memories of this moment so starkly he feels ill. Looses control of the dream. With a turning stomach he watches the distorted and bestial image of himself rip her robe from her flesh, watches her shrink before him in fear. She is _terrified_ of him, he can taste her anguish on the air. She does not _want_ this…

Before Solas can remember himself he calls, begging his doppelganger to stop. Hears the anguish in his own voice and flinches back from the cruel smile he gets in response.

Why did she not stop him, it is clear Frey does not want this.   
_Why_ would she have let him if she….  
But he _hadn’t._ His own memories rush up to reassure him how she leaned into his touch, the way she moaned when he pressed against her.

Though that is not what he _sees._

Hands come up to press against his chest, it looks like she is trying to push him off. That never happened, he would have stopped if she’d shown any sign of resistance. Despite any passion or anger he may have felt he would _never_ have hurt her. He is not a monster.   
But maybe…

Just maybe…

He’d been so caught up in the moment when he first kissed her, could he have missed it? Could he have wanted her to want _him_ so badly that he truly deceived himself? The image before him flickers, their two memories of this one event merging together. 

One moment they are lost in each other’s bliss, kissing passionately, moving together in rapture. Then the lighting shifts.  
She looks distraught, almost in pain. There is pleasure there still but it is reluctant, against her will.

This was rape. What actually happened is unimportant, what he is watching now is her honest perception. He had _raped_ her.

Solas squeezes his eyes shut, he cannot watch this anymore. The noises of their coupling echo in his ears, taunting him. The pleasure he had taken with her seems a twisted, vile thing now. But it makes no sense. She is strong, a proficient mage and the leader of an army powerful enough to challenge half of Thedas. Why would she… 

What had he done to ever make her think this was in his character.   
And afterwards.  
Afterwards he had always been the one to pursue. She had avoided him, been distant, and he had pushed. Ignored what he did not want to see.  
Except.

Except she’d said she loved him. Had come to him unprompted.

“There is a wolf among us.” Morrigan’s voice cuts through his thoughts and Solas opens his eyes. He has lost control of this situation completely. It didn’t happen like this, her memories are bleeding together.

The witch stands against the weathered stone wall, eyeing the rutting couple on the bed with detached interest. 

“He has _lied_ to you Inquisitor. It is _all_ a grand deception, this soft spoken, scholarly persona he has cultivated -- whatever reasons he has given for his allegiance, his involvement. _Lies._ ”

No, he was a fool. A selfish, delusional fool. She had avoided him for months before this moment, and had been distant from him afterwards.   
And he had pursued her anyways.   
There were plenty of times she’d acted strangely, a multitude of hints to her state of mind. Moments when she flinched away or froze when he touched her, days when all conversation between them seemed forced.  
The way Bull had moved to protect her, how hostile he’d been those first few days.  
Solas just hadn't wanted to see it, hadn’t wanted to know. 

“The Well has shown me his image Inquisitor. I have seen the face beneath his many masks and he is a _beast._ ”

The smell of blood permeates the air and Solas snaps back around towards the bed in time to see Freija spread-out and alone, chest ripped open and empty, blankets soaked in blood.  
He needs to get out of here. This isn’t even a memory anymore, the fade is being warped by his misery. There is nothing more he can glean from this and he needs to get somewhere he can think clearly. Try to figure out how he missed this, try to find some way to justify that it wasn’t what it looked like. 

“He can’t be…” her lips barely move, cold and dead, lifeless as her vacant eyes.

A bone chilling growl cuts the silence and the balcony doors explode inwards as the monstrous wolf crashes through; and Solas watches helplessly as her broken body is thrown across the empty space. They are not in Skyhold anymore, they are back in ~~her~~ his nightmare.

The beast advances on her and Frey scampers backwards, begging for her life. 

Solas cannot watch another second of this, he needs to wake up now. He needs to _wake up._

She gasps sharply and against his will Fen’Harel’s eyes meet hers. The woman he loves stares right into his eyes, into a face he is sure shows little other that agony and self-hatred. She sobs his name, his _real_ name. It is not a question. It is an accusation and a plea for mercy. The only woman he has ever truly loved and she detests and fears him equally. He is nothing but a monster to her. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The surface of the dream shatters with a blast of raw power, and Solas is off his cot and halfway to his bedpan before he even opens his eyes.

Visions of her face beneath him, a resigned and fearful look in her eyes, permeate his waking mind; Turning his stomach and forcing bile into his throat. His disgust has manifested itself physically, and he barely makes it to the bucket before he is retching up his guts. 

Already someone is pounding on his door. The manic spell he had cast to escape the dream had sent most of the furniture flying, and had produced no small amount of ruckus. Solas raises his head weakly to call them off, to reassure them of his well-being, but his voice chokes in his throat as a sob.

A nagging feeling in the back of his mind tells him something is wrong, that he is missing a valuable piece of this puzzle -- but it is drowned out by blind animal panic almost immediately. 

From the hall he hears someone instructing a servant to ‘fetch the Inquisitor’ and Solas swears he feels almost faint in response, a fresh wave of hysterical tears leaking from his eyes.

He cannot see her now, not when he…not after what he has done. Not while he still doesn’t understand why she let him. Fear can be a good motivator, but fear…

Fear could never breed moments like last night, hours of companionable silence; her reading comfortably in his arms late into the night. Completely at ease and unguarded around him.  
Only, maybe she wasn’t. If he were to relive _that_ moment from her perspective too what would he find. A scared Dalish woman cowering in the arms of the beast who raped her?

“Solas?” the pounding on his door has stopped, but this is worse. “Are you alright, _vhenan?_ Cullen says he heard an explosion.”

The endearment is almost painful to hear, but so is the voice in his head begging him to let her in. To let there be some _explanation_ for this. Some way for this to all be a misunderstanding, some combinations of words that will erase this permeating feeling of self-loathing and loss.

Fen’Harel wants those things more than anything. Even though he knows it’s impossible. 

“Please,” she calls, and even with his newfound knowledge it still sounds like distress and worry in her voice, “I just need to know you are alright.”

He doesn’t answer her. In fact, he almost immediately begins to calculate the odds of survival were he to slip out the window and attempt to scale the walls of Tarasyl’an Te’las. It is a pity he does not know how to shapeshift into anything that can _fly._

Unfortunately, he does not have the time to put any such suicidal escape plan into action.

There are a few seconds of ominous silence before he hears a mumbled ‘Thank you Varric’, and the door swings open.


End file.
